You’re sitting across from the most beautiful woman you’ve ever set eyes on—and you’ve seen quite a few beautiful women in your day. You were raised by such women; your entire college program was filled with tall, contemplative Aphrodites who quoted Shakespeare; at one point, you, yes you, were a beautiful woman, albeit short and hairy.

But this woman? She takes the cake. She even talks about dancing with cake, smearing it on her body in utter defiance of her conviction that she’s unlovable. She wants to do it to make people want her, to see her—on her terms.

You love her, you want her, you see her. Indeed, see now as her crystalline tears spill over the bar under the fairy lights on this late winter night. These are the tears in fantasies that heal wounds or give the protagonist visions of their inevitable triumph. But you are not on a quest, and this is no damsel. Your chivalry, picked up from years of reading about Lancelot and Galahad, will be of no use here.

Your arm is around her, protective, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes, brimming and bubbling, are on her phone, the heading of the chat is yet another generic boy’s name. The contents of the chat contain yet another generic boy’s response. You’re pretty much fed up with generic boys, even if you are slowly acquiring the body of one, hair by hair.

“I don’t understand. How do people do it?”

“Do what?”

“Have relationships that are so fulfilling and committed.”

You shrug and try not to think about how the only “fulfilling and committed” relationships you’ve seen have not been straight couples. Or even serially monogamous couples, for that matter.

You give some kind of non-answer about how all relationships have their struggles.

She pops a few fries in her mouth and swallows some beer, fingers coated in a mix of mustard and ketchup. Each finger gets a delicate lick. Her hair falls over her face as you both lapse into silence, staring out into the night. You try not to stare at her, fallen star giving off heat next to you. It’s times like these that you’re extremely grateful for not having a dick.

“We deserve exquisite relationships,” she proclaims to the empty bar.

The obvious is avoided. You dismiss the memory of making out with her in your room.

There were fairy lights there too, following from moment to moment with her, as if they were her entourage. (Surely, surely, these lights would never follow you.)

She gives you an apologetic glance. You mentally plug your nose so you can’t smell her skin when she turns to face you.

“I’m sorry. I wish I weren’t attracted to men.”

There it is. You were waiting for it—you’re not a man. You are not a woman. To women, you are nothing but a lacking, and at best something to snack on between meals. To men, you are a threat to the dwindling pool of eligible women who can stomach their outdated, patriarchal whimsies.

“It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. You could retire if you had a dime for the number of times women apologized to you for being attracted to men—but not the you-kind-of-man. The kind of man you are is still in a cocoon, all mush and faint mustaches. Even when you emerge, you still wouldn’t be the kind of man that women like her would want.

Cis people may not banish trans people physically from spaces, but many partake (consciously or not) in the practice of sexual segregation. They isolate people like you with their words and their bodies. I-mean-this-kind-of-man or I-want-that-sort-of-woman—insert physical distance here. Trans people like you who are single, just want. In shedding your past self, which fit like overlarge shoes and a too-tight bra, you began to see the fake lines drawn between this sex and that gender: each person, regardless of what is in their pants, is a unique expression of what happens when celestial dust settles for more than a few billion years.

You manage to grin through the shame that languishes in your stomach.

“It feels like a sitcom.”

It feels like you want to melt into the cracks on the floor. You want to seep through into the soil, live with worms and pill bugs in the damp dark.

She hiccups on another sob. Against your better judgment, you grip her shoulders tighter.

“People who are in sitcoms eventually get what they want.”

“Not always.”

Another gap. You sip your drink. You’re no longer hungry. A server comes by to take away her glass. They exchange smiles, and you hate him, you hate him so much, god you just want to be able to snap your fingers and set him on fire.

“He’s cute,” she murmurs, watching him walk behind the bar to the dishwasher.

You imagine his body burning.

You get another drink. She gets another drink. As time passes, she scrolls mindlessly through her notifications. Generic boy apologizes. Generic boy says good night. Generic boy says sweet dreams with a heart emoji. She says he’s in a tough spot, and she understands. She understands so much she starts crying again.

You can’t even finish your drink. She finishes it for you.

“I wish I was desirable,” she says, “I want a passionate romance.”

You mention offhandedly, in defense of your deflating ego and rapid descent into a morose mood, that you ate out a woman so hard she came five times.

This got her attention long enough for her to say she’s lucky if she gets off once. She goes back to texting generic boy. He doesn’t deserve to have his title capitalized. You seethe even through your spiteful grammar choices. He’ll forever be “generic boy” in your head, even when you see him again in person. Even if he’s nice, even if he makes her happy, even though you know he’s cheating on her. It’s in his stance, his eyes, the knowledge he’ll always get away with it, because who will hold him accountable?

You try not to think about the bruises covering her neck last week, in the shape of his lips.

You know they are ugly lips, despite not recalling if they are full or thin.

The bar gives a last call; you already have your jacket on. She asks if you need to stay over, but you’re not drunk. You’re determined to drive home and pack this night into a box you’ve labeled “Vaguely Transphobic.”

You keep it in the back of your closet, under the bag that has your strap-on and condoms.

You might not be able to quote Shakespeare, but at least you can be pretty damn poetic.